I apologize in advance for the crassness of this post. Crass really isn’t my style. But I think it’s time that you, Dear Reader, suffered along with me.
You see, Doug orchestrated a cake-decorating extravaganza, where the kids autographed my birthday cake with icing pens. It was a sweet moment. Their faces glowed with excitement as I leaned in to blow out the candles (which I would have preferred not to scream a reminder of my age…but I digress).
At that moment, I discovered that Doug had snuck in a signature of his own. (If you like your cake with white frosting, blue flowers and a side of vulgarity, see pic below.)
As the children clamored for me to make my wish, across the table was a smirk across Doug’s face wider than the cake itself.
You can probably guess which piece he found on his plate.
Every year after a snow storm, the same melodrama is acted out in the middle of my kitchen.
Doug returns from combat with his plow, dressed head to toe in arctic-insulated Yukon Extremes, eskimo hat and thermal merino wool socks, shakes the show from his boots, unpeels the aluminium-lined gloves from his raw, red hands and booms, “Remind me why in carnation we stay in this state?”
(As usual, cleanin’ it up for the kids.)
“…Is it for the taxes? The governor? The gun laws? Five months out of the year in complete darkness?”
If I wanted to add snow melt to his wounds, I’d lip sync the rest of his rant along with him, but instead I just listen as he curses the day we bought a house and settled down in Connecticut, knowing full well about the bleak and bitter winters that lie ahead.
For years, I’ve listened as he acts out the quandaries in his head. “Think I’ll go for a ride out on the motorcycle—awwwww!” he stops short as his gaze falls out the window and into the tundra of our backyard.
“Look,” he says, brandishing his phone before me. “Pictures of Steve and his kids out on the beach. What are WE doing today?” he asks, casting an angry glance at the whiteout swirling outside the window.
And of course, he’s convinced he’s afflicted with SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder), which for six months I actually thought he made up until I finally googled it.
Every day from November until April, he beseeches me to come to my senses. “It’s a waste of life,” he persuades. “Why can’t we move down South? I’ll let you pick any place on the map. Just get me the hell out of Connecticut!”
But still, I dig in my heels. How could I uproot my children from their family and friends? Connecticut has some of the best schools in the country. Not to mention my dad’s family dinners, and my mom, round-the clock free babysitter, bailing me out a moment’s notice.
But as I watch him stare into the 4:30 afternoon blackness as Christmas approaches each year, I start to weaken, wondering if maybe he is right. It must be hard for him, retired with nothing to do while the rest of his friends are at work. Clean-up after a Nor’easter year after year would take a toll on anyone’s sanity. And who knows–maybe he really is afflicted with SAD. What’s really keeping me here in Connecticut, anyway?
Then I get a Robocall from the principal of my school, announcing that the building will be closed for a second glorious day in a row, sealing the deal for a four-day weekend after a long winter break.
As April 15 has come and gone, the results are in: as Doug put it, we’ve been tax shamed by the IRS. (For those of you who don’t speak Doug, we will not be receiving a refund this year.)
To remedy the problem, our accountant has suggested we each claim one less dependent on next year’s tax return.
Not such an easy solution, considering all three dependents are equally adorable.
